The Truth of All Things (8 page)

T
he late-afternoon sun filtered into the top floor of the three-story brick building on Temple Street that housed the Maine Temperance Union’s headquarters. Simon Gould, in his late forties but still powerfully built and with a soldier’s bearing, lifted a coffeepot from its silver platter. He caught sight of his own marred face, the burned tissue reflecting clearly in the vessel’s gleaming surface.

“A prostitute was killed last night,” Gould said.

“One less whore corrupting our streets,” said Colonel Ambrose Blanchard as he held out his fine white porcelain cup. “So foul a life leads to so foul an end. No doubt that the demon alcohol lured her so far from redemption.”

As Gould filled the colonel’s cup, the curvature of the coffeepot twisted his stern visage, growing the dead, milky orb of his right eye to grotesque proportions. Gould finished pouring and placed the pot down, freeing himself from the uncomfortable sight of his old wound.

“They found her down at the Portland Company.” Gould retook his seat. “With a pitchfork through her neck.”

The colonel was silent for a moment. He frowned, and his gray, thistly eyebrows threatened to form a tangled knot above his austere face. “Was there … anything else?”

“She was laid out like a pentagram. Her right hand was missing.”

The elder man set his cup down on its saucer with a sharp clank. He cursed as the steaming coffee splashed over the side, scalding his hand. “You think it’s him?”

“He talked of some such things,” Gould said, “once or twice, when he was in one of his agitated states.”

“You told me he was gone. That he would not be a concern …”

“Perhaps he’s come home.” Gould saw the colonel glare at him in response and added, “To Portland, that is.”

“Why?” Blanchard finally asked. “The hand taken, it’s like …”

“That book of his,” said Gould.

“Maybe, but we need to know whether he had anything to do with that whore’s death.” The colonel walked to a bookcase filled with a mix of leather- and cloth-bound volumes. Several picture frames stood on the shelves as well, most showing the colonel with small groups of people, often shaking hands with various municipal or state leaders. “Find out whether he’s been here. And find that book before anyone else does.”

“The police have no idea. They’re looking for an Indian.”

“Good, but we must take an active hand in this. None of us are safe now. No one can know who he is.” The colonel set the picture facedown on the shelf. “Or who he ever was.”

Helen Prescott and her eight-year-old daughter, Delia, arrived at Dr. Steig’s at six thirty. The servant took their coats. Helen wore a
stylish walking costume of English serge with double box plaiting and apron drapery in the front. The dark blue material complemented her fair skin and blue eyes. She wore her rich brown hair up in a popular style, knotted and braided but long enough, in her case, to cover the back of her neck. Helen gave a soft rap at the study door, then entered.

Dr. Steig looked up from his desk, where he was pecking away, mostly left-handed, on his Daugherty Visible typewriter. Delia skipped across the room, doing a twirl to show off her fancy cashmere jersey dress, before giving Dr. Steig a hug.

“Thank you, sweet child. What a surprise.”

“You did invite us for dinner,” Helen reminded him.

“Oh, heavens, forgive me. Just gotten distracted with something. Why don’t we dine out?”

“Can we?” Delia asked.

“If you need to get that done first, I could do the typing for you,” Helen said.

“What? No, this is nothing. I can finish it later.”

“It’s not a problem, Uncle Virgil. I could have it done for you in no time.” She approached to get a look at the document.

Dr. Steig released the paper from the typewriter. “Not at all, dear. It’s nothing. A sensitive matter. I need to attend to it personally.” He set the paper atop several pages of notes, then deposited the bunch in the top right drawer of his desk.

Once Helen was close enough, she noticed the circles beneath her uncle’s eyes. “Are you feeling all right? You look as though you haven’t slept.”

“I’ll be fine. Get a good night’s rest tonight. It’s just this pressing matter.”

Helen took a half step back, her nose wrinkling as she puzzled it out. “It’s that awful business in the papers, isn’t it? At the Portland Company.”

“Not appropriate to discuss in front of Delia.”

“Yes, Delia,” Helen said. She showed him a sarcastic smile. “Or any other fragile ears.”

“I’m certainly not going to discuss it while we dine.” He rose and moved toward the coatrack by the door.

“Then you can tell me all about it later.”

“Police business, dear. Highly confidential.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Helen said with a glance back at Dr. Steig’s desk. “So it must be terribly gruesome.”

A
n hour after leaving Union Station, Lean reached the town of Old Orchard Beach and made his transfer. While he rode the narrow-gauge dummy train that shuttled him several miles from that summer resort town to the beachfront depot at Camp Ellis, he read two newspapers he’d bought. The
Eastern Argus
declared,
WOMAN MURDERED AT PORTLAND CO
. and
HORRIBLY MUTILATED BODY—POLICE SEEK INDIAN SUSPECT
. Not to be outdone, the
Daily Advertiser
screamed,
BLOODY MURDER THE WORK OF INDIANS
, and
RIPPER-STYLE KILLING BY BLOODTHIRSTY RED SAVAGE
.

After reading the stories twice through, Lean turned his attention to the passing scenery as the open-air train rattled along the dunes. It moved through the evangelical summer community of Ocean Park, then past the salt marshes, where Goose Fair Creek emptied into Saco Bay. Lean stared out to his left at the Atlantic. The sun, less than half an hour from setting, lit the beach and the ocean water from behind him. He had managed to telephone his house from the station to explain he wouldn’t be home until late, and now he thought of returning here next weekend to give Emma a well-deserved day of leisure.

Two miles on, past an empty landscape of dunes and long stretches of scrub pines, the dummy train deposited Lean and a load of fellow travelers at Camp Ellis. The spot was a sandy point capped with a long rock jetty extending straight out into the ocean from the north bank of the slow-moving Saco River. He could hear the festive noises coming up from the show grounds closer to the beach. As the couples and families
moved past him, Lean glanced over to where three long wagons were parked under a shady stand of trees. Close to two dozen men loitered about there in small clumps. There was not a single woman or child among them, and Lean noticed several bottles and flasks making the rounds. Apparently he wasn’t the only man who’d been reading the shocking Indian allegations that had flooded every newspaper in the state that afternoon.

He hurried after the crowd of spectators, wanting to blend in on arrival and avoid being spotted by Grey. The show consisted of several large tents, stages, fenced pens for horsemanship displays, and booths spread out over a few acres of grounds bounded in by the Saco River and the Atlantic Ocean. For the next half hour, Lean searched through the stalls and among the crowds for Grey. As daylight faded, oil lamps hanging from posts all around the grounds were lit. In one great fenced-in area, a small crowd of performers reenacted a battle scene where white settlers, to the rousing cheers of the crowd, fought off a circling party of warriors on horseback. Lean moved on and passed a painted tepee where a kindly faced middle-aged Indian woman by the name of Sister Neptune told fortunes. She also sold various powders and potions designed to ward off the very evils she foretold.

Elsewhere a small stage was set aside to entertain young children, whose number had dwindled as the sun went down and some families set off for the return trip on the dummy train. A puppet show told some story involving a giant eagle and Glooskap, the man created from nothing, an Algonquin Indian trickster hero. A riding display included the famous Sable Island Ponies, said to be untamable. Nearby, an attractive Indian woman with long braids and a fringed buckskin suit, decorated with purple and white wampum beads, made trick rifle shots, including an over-the-shoulder target practice performed with a hand held mirror.

On closer inspection Lean noticed that a superb juggler in full warrior regalia, handling four razor-sharp tomahawks, turned out to be a white man. The fact did little to dampen his appreciation of the man’s skill. He moved on, passing booths where vendors hawked Indian oils,
ointments, and syrups. The big seller was the Sagamo Indian Elixir. As Lean approached a raised platform near the entrance to the grounds, he recognized the old Indian he’d seen on the flyer earlier. The man, announced as Chief White Eagle, praised the elixir as a great pain reliever that remedied everything from cold stomach to jaundice, dropsy, and stranguary.

As Lean approached, he caught sight of Grey staring straight back at him. Grey, dressed in a charcoal frock coat with dark striped pants and holding a fancy steel-gripped walking stick, wandered over as the Indian began his pitch.

“Finally, Lean. Why on earth didn’t you just take the earlier train?”

“Enjoying yourself, then?”

“Not at all. A horribly disappointing display. Half the performers are not even Indians. And I can promise you that if any Mohegan Indians were still alive and here today, they wouldn’t be dressed in these costumes, which have no business anywhere east of the Mississippi.” Grey waved in the direction of a passing performer wearing a full headdress with strands of feathers at the back running all the way to his knees. “It’s a complete fraud and mockery of actual Algonquian Indian culture.”

“It’s just a show, Grey.”

“So was throwing Christians to the lions.” Grey gestured toward the nearby medicine display. “It’s not wholly a loss. Old Chief White Eagle is, despite his name, an authentic and very knowledgeable individual.”

“Knowledgeable about what? Why are you here, Grey?”

“The same reason as you, I suspect.”

“I’m investigating you.”

“I stand corrected.” He gave Lean a bemused look. “I’m attempting to solve Maggie Keene’s murder.”

“I need to know what you’re hiding from me. Why come all the way here? You could have visited any tobacconist in Portland to learn about the cigarettes you pocketed. It’s Indian tobacco. Grows wild.”

“The scientific name is lobelia. I brought a sample. Unfortunately, the chief could tell me nothing specific about the blend our killer used.”

“What, then? Do you suspect that someone from the show is the killer?”

Grey shook his head. “It was a slim possibility. But all the performers and workers arrived here from New Hampshire only two days ago. Our killer spent a week studying the Portland Company and the watchman. Everyone here was in Portsmouth each night last week, Concord the week before that.”

Lean regarded him for a long moment. “You’ve never thought the killer’s an Indian at all, have you? Convince me of the same. Otherwise … well, the mayor wants you off this investigation.”

“I see. I have Indian blood, and you’re convinced the killer is an Indian. I can’t be trusted.”

Lean shrugged. “Who else would leave an Indian message? Why can’t you admit the obvious?”

“The evidence hasn’t yet proved the race of the killer,” Grey said.

“It’s good enough for me.”

“It appears you’re not alone.”

There was an angry shout behind Lean, followed by a murmur of panicked excitement that boiled up into a frenzy in mere seconds. When he turned, Lean recognized the group of two dozen men he’d seen near the train depot approaching in a mob, several carrying clubs. One of the men swung his stick as he passed a booth, toppling the wooden support and sending the overhead sign crashing down. A middle-aged man stepped forward from the crowd of peaceful patrons. “Enough of that now! This is a family event. There are women and children about!”

His objection earned the man a violent shove, and he went sprawling down into the dirt. Other visitors began scurrying out of the way, and parents herded their children off in the direction of the train.